Borderline Personality Disorder Stories

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Story #53

I will start at the beginning. When I was born, the umbilical cord was wrapped around my neck, thus preventing my lungs to full develop. I had to end my gestational period in an artificial womb that I couldn't come out of. I don't know if I missed out on the bonding that should develop between babies and their parents, but I believe that I did. I could not be held in my mother's arms for fourteen days, nurtured, only by bitter nurses who couldn't have children of their own. How many more psychiatrists are going to tell me that I might be thinking too much?

My dad was old school, but I don't know if we are talking about the same kind. End stage alcoholic. You know, the mean kind, they come home from the bar and your whole world turns nasty all of a sudden? I mean in like 2 seconds? My dad was a child abuser; they now have laws that protect children in circumstances like mine.

Dad would get so mean to all of us when he would drink. I can't even tell how many times I watched my mother be tormented by him. He never would hurt any of us in the face, he seemed to favor grabbing your neck and having “real” eye to eye contact. My God, you could literally get drunk off of his breath! My skin is crawling now, thinking about it. He would always seem to leave bruises on our necks.

When I was about 8, my dad's heart got really bad and he turned from the physical-verbal abuse to just verbal. I've decided at least the bruises would go away but how do you heal the scars that are buried, deep, within yourself? I would scream at my dad to just hit me and get it over with. He would torment us for hours, the foul language that came out of his mouth. I was grown up before my time. Now, I'm going through the stages of being a teenager because I never got to be one.

I was kind of overweight as a child and I was an early bloomer. I started getting teased about being fat when I started puberty at eight. It was the start of me becoming anorexic. At first I just dieted and exercised and the weight was coming off but at a slow rate. I started to eat less and exercise more. It became an obsession for me. Then the craving for food just started to get too much and I gave in to the temptation of bingeing and purging. Sounds lovely, doesn't it?

It was the start of me taking prescription medication and smoking marijuana. I was monitored so closely; I couldn't even go to the bathroom by myself! Take the medication so I couldn't throw up. I honestly will say that I began smoking pot to alleviate the physical effects of being an anorexic. After ten years, it is safe to say, that I am addicted.

I didn't have many friends or boyfriends. I pretty much was a loner and I think I even scared people a little bit. The only people I associated with were my family, and it was my nephew that introduced me to a friend of his and he was my first love and my first husband.

I got pregnant at 17 and gave birth to my son. My husband and I were basically good to each other for the first couple of years and then the strain of being so young with a family was too much. We started to do a lot of methamphetamines. Our marriage then turned violent, as do most that mix drugs and marriage. We use to get in rages that would end in one of us getting hurt. At this point in time my husband had an affair on me.

I discovered at that time I was three months pregnant with my daughter. I was severely depressed and the pregnancy kept deteriorating. I was losing weight, my blood pressure was through the roof, I was already developing protein in my urine and they told me the baby probably wouldn't make it through the pregnancy. I was supposed to be bedridden for the last couple of months but impossible when you have another little one running loose too.

My husband's guilty conscience led to him blaming me of having the affair and there was no way possible for this baby to be his and more fighting and more pain. My doctor put me in the hospital for the last weeks of my pregnancy. My daughter had to be monitored carefully because of my blood pressure and I kept going into premature labor. I finally gave birth to her during the blizzard of '96. She was my unique little snowflake. She is my mini-me.

I have always hurt myself. I don't know a time that I didn't. Even when I was a little girl, I did it. I hated myself so much that I could only think of the next way to hurt myself. I like to cut myself and eat a lot of pills. Then it seemed like for a while I would pick men who were hazardous to my health. It's like I attract the mentally unstable (forgive me for the pun) men who like to beat women. My daughter has watched me get beat up several times and two years later still have nightmares about it.

It was after that time I started to get paranoid. John was stalking me, the police weren't helping me, I was getting harassed by all of his friends, and my house was getting broke into. I tried to commit suicide one night taking a bottle of Phenobarbital and drinking a bottle of fire and ice. That was the first time I wound up in a special care unit. I tried to explain to them about John and they gave me a sympathetic shoulder and a dismissal.

I went back home to the same house. It was broke into again. More paranoia and more delusions. They were getting worse and the time lapses started getting more and more frequent. I wouldn't come out of my house. I barricaded and nailed all doors and windows tight. Nobody was going to get in or so I thought. I tried to overdose again on a bottle of Xanax and a bottle of peppermint schnapps. I couldn't live with all of these delusions and wondering if they were real or not.

A friend found me this time and I woke up again in the same hospital. I seen a different doctor this time. I explained to him about my divorce and the depression and he started me on some antidepressants and anti-psychotics. I stayed in the hospital for two weeks this time. At my house, my brother and nephews were moving me back home. When I got out of the hospital, I did not return to that house.

One day I had an episode and I don't remember how or when I did this but some kids from town found me out at a pond cutting my legs with broken glass. They said I just kept stabbing at myself. My family had me committed then. I started a new regime of medicine. Effexor XR, Seroquel, Lorazepam and Trazadone. My mother dispensed my medication to me like a child in fear that if I had control of them I would just eat them all.

I started a day program with the hospital and it was OK but it wasn't something I was very responsive to. I just find it hard to open up to people face to face so it made it very difficult for me. I've been bottled up all of my life so I feel sorry for the one therapist I'll unleash upon.

I went back in two more times that summer... I can't explain why I went back those times, not for attention but I mutilated myself so bad that when I tried to hide the bleeding, I kept soaking through the layers of gauze and my Mom got all freaked out when she saw it, that she talked me into going back again. My doctor would get so mad at me! "You are difficult to treat, you have erratic behavior, etc." he would tell me.

The hospital assigned an at home nurse to come and see me every other day. She would take my vitals and count my medicine. She would make sure I made it to the day program, she conversed with the doctor and the therapist in the day program. I started to feel better because my medication was at optimum, working levels.

The last six months have been a transformation for me. I found a job that I really love. It gave me a grounding point, and gave me goals for my life. I began to feel normal. A life, kids, a job, a house, a relationship. I don't know if I can handle normal. I began to feel so good I quit taking my medicine. But I still don't know if that was a good thing or not because I have two men that are in my life. I know that I have a dependent personality, but is it wrong to be with two men who suit your different needs? I just have to have the chaos, one will say to me.

One man gives me what I need emotionally and the other gives me what I need physically. There are so different from each other. I don't know why I find solace in leading a double life but for once in my life I finally feel like I have love. I know that one day I will have to choose between the two of them and I dread that day but that will be the day when I know which one really, truly loves me and that will be the man that I will give myself to.

I know now that no matter how good you are feeling; do not quit taking your medicine just because you think you feel better. My experience with going off the meds hasn't been good for me. I went back to the mutilating and suicidal ideation after a couple of months. But as of last week I am on my regime once again and the racing thoughts and the self harm is at bay for now.

Story #54

I don't really know how to start, so I guess I'll start at the beginning... I am 13 years old and was diagnosed with BPD earlier this year. It didn't come as much as a shock to me as it did everyone else. A close friend of mine over the Internet had been diagnosed with BPD a few weeks before I was and she thought that I might be Bipolar, it turned out I was. I always knew I was different.

The medication I'm on, Depakote has not helped much with my depression. But it seems to make me a bit bearable and I seem to be somewhat happier now. Adults don't know what it is like being as young as me and having this illness... and you all may say that you know how I feel all you want, but unless you've been down the road I'm walking you don't know anything. However, my close friend, she knows what I'm going through because she is walking with me down, along that path of BPD and Self mutilation. Yes, I - at 13 - am a self injurer, I can even tell you total number of cuts I have made on my body, however I do not want people that I don't know worried about me... that is my story.

My name is Mary and I am 15 years old. I have just been diagnosed with BPD and now as I look back it all fits in. Finally after many years I know what is different inside my head.

Well, I guess you could say I had a pretty average childhood. I was never physically abused but my parents fought constantly. My house always assembled a war zone, full of broken glass. My dad is chronically depressed and my mom is ADHD. Not making such a good combination. My mom would always scream "I'm gonna kill myself" and hit herself or my dad. And my dad would shield himself and hide away.

I have always been shy and I have hated myself and wanted to die for as long as I can remember. I've always only had one or two good friends, and the rest are people to mingle with. Whenever a friend would leave, I would push myself away until I convinced myself it didn't matter. And then I would
race to find a new best friend. This because friends have always been the only people I care about. In elementary school I was quiet and never spoke up. And when I did I always made a mistake that I would beat myself up forever about. Both mentally and physically. I would hit myself with rocks or dig my nails into my skin. Then I had rages where I would scream at my parents for not punishing me because I was bad. But I hadn't done anything. So I punished myself some more.

Then when I was in 3rd grade my parents finally got divorced. I was relieved but unemotional. At least the fighting would stop and everything would be okay. My dad moved out and I turned against him. And I had always been a daddy's girl. My parents blamed my resentment on the fact that he moved out, I didn't believe that and still don't. And If I was upset I was amazing at hiding it to myself and them.

In middle school I hid myself even better. I put on a whole new persona. I tried my hardest to be excepted. But there was always something different about me and others sensed it too. I didn’t have any true friends then, tho I fooled myself into thinking I did. All they did was walk on me. And I couldn't even get a boy to like me.

Then came High school. 9th grade changed my life. And I'm sure this all seems so petty to all of you. I met a boy I liked and he liked me. I thought I felt a connection with him. Then he moved to Florida. He said he would call and he would come up to visit sometimes. He called once when he first got down there. Then I never heard from him again. I waited around for him for months. Living, I mean only living off the hope that he would come back. After a year I accepted that he was gone forever. And with that exception all my hope was lost. My world spiraled further into darkness than I ever imagined it would. With any chance of love or sex gone, life was gone. I have no clue how I've made it this far.

And continually in 10th grade things got worse. I started therapy which did no good. By winter I was self medicating myself on strong pain killers and tranquilizers. I smoked pot and drank a lot. I plotted suicide. Then in the spring I began cutting. It scared me at first but it was a good scare.
It brought me back to reality. It eased the pain for just a minute. For that minute the world shut down and I could feel my heart beat without the pain in my chest.

Then I was put on Prozac. Prozac was a horrible experience. It thru me into a full on mania first thing. I had wild dreams and ranted about them, and they became part of reality. Then I had mixed episodes where I would cry and scream and punch walls until my hand swelled. And they were cycling within hours. So I stopped taking the Prozac and went into a bad depression. But then I still had no clue what was going on. So we tried Paxil. And it started all over again. But first when I was on the Paxil I went numb. I was dazed. I took lots of pills. A combination of 50 aspirin and Benadryl before I went to bed. And I woke up at 5am crying and confused so I screamed. My mom took me to the hospital to get me checked out, the doctors treated me like a rat. And the only reason I didn't get checked in is because I begged and begged. So I had to promise everyone in the entire world (psychiatrist, social worker, therapist, psychologist) that I would not do this again. And if I felt I was going to I would tell someone. Ha. I lied.

So the cutting continued. And grew consistently worse. Although no one knew about it. Till finally Bipolar came into question of diagnosis. So I was put on Depakote and things did get better. 1000 mg a day and I could go thru some days without thinking about killing myself. And then it just decreased its worth. I fell into a numbness and then into a depression. I still don't understand. And the Depakote was making me eat so much so I started puking up my meals and starving myself. But my will is so weak its so hard. So I have one big meal a day. And just the other day I began to confess all this dirt to my therapist. And he concluded the symptoms sound a lot like BPD. And then my P doc agreed. So its on my diagnosis along with rapid cycling Bipolar disorder. So here I am. Who knows where I’ll go from here.

I guess I've been depressed for a long time. I'm 16 and I've been diagnosed with clinical depression and a borderline personality. When you have something that not everyone else has it makes it hard for you to believe that you could ever be loved and accepted.

When I was in junior high I was over weight. Kids teased me pretty badly and I would go home every day feeling awful. I wasn't asking anyone to call me beautiful, nor was I expecting one of the most popular guys to take an interest in me, but I didn't want anyone to tease me. It crumpled my self esteem every time someone uttered something negative about my weight. Even within the realm of my own family I was criticized about my body. My aunt who is 300 pounds and obese was constantly telling me that I needed to go on a diet, or she would do things like compare me to the nearest skinny girl. Despite the fact that she had no room to talk, she made me feel terrible.

Finally, from both a combination of being made fun of in school and from my aunt I decided to lose weight. At first it was a normal diet, then it spun out of control and for almost four years now I've been bulimic. I've lost 30 pounds since junior high and have managed to be at my "suggested" weight according to doctors and weight charts since my freshman year of high school. But I have not maintained that weight because I'm a normal person and eat 3 meals a day with regular exercise. I maintain that weight by throwing up my food after each meal, exercising sometimes and taking tons of diet pills.

I don't want to continue on throwing up and taking diet pills until it kills me, I want to get better. It's just a battle that I fight every day. No matter how much I want to shed it and leave it behind it is always with me. There is always a voice inside my head telling me that I'm this 'fat blob' even though people are saying the exact opposite on the outside now. I have guys at my finger tips fawning over me; telling me how beautiful I am. I've been getting this constant attention for over a year now. None of it matters to me, it never did. No matter how good looking the guy or how much he buttered me up, I never bought it until a guy named John came into my life. He single handedly probably brought me more happiness than anyone could have and at the same time caused me so much pain.

I don't know what it was about him that pulled me in. Maybe it's was the whole "We always want what we can't have" saying. John had a girlfriend, but I didn't care. Why should I have cared when he didn't seem to care? From the very first day that he met me, he had this overwhelming affect on me. Consequently, I found out that he was a player, but he knew just what to say to me and he played the game well.

We flirted, we kissed, our ''relationship" progressed. I opened up to him. I told him about all of my problems. He never thought less of me for them and he always knew just what to say to make me feel better. If I was having a bad day, just to see or hear from him made it all go away and the day felt fresh again like it had just begun.

I instilled every bit of love that I had in my heart inside of him. He seemed to hold and posses everything that I had ever wanted.

John and his girlfriend had a very unhealthy relationship so I was convinced that I was the one that he really loved. He claimed that he couldn't break up with her because she was suicidal and a bunch of other stuff that he piled on to his wagon of lies, but I believed every bit of it, I believed that I was special and that he was an honest person and that I was different and that he had never cheated before and that he would never cheat. I believed that I was the exception because I was so "Wonderful and beautiful and not like anyone else" as he told me.

Well, push finally came to shove and I realized that those 'things' he said were all lines. I showed him that I was interested, I focused all of my attention on him and he knew he could feed me lines and I would bite because I was vulnerable when it came to him.

It didn't click until I saw him do the exact same thing to another girl who wasn't his girlfriend. I guess I wasn't so special. My friends had warned me for months but I just didn't think they understood the situation.

I felt like someone cared about me. John was gorgeous and he appealed to me in every possible way. I'm a picky person so it is hard to do that. I guess when you go through a lifetime of problems and you finally find something that makes you happy you cling really tight to it so it doesn't slip away like everything else. With John I got some "innocence" back, something that had been taken from me at a very young age. John is four years older than me, so a 16 year old and a 20 year old are on somewhat different levels and it's obvious that I would portray "a young demeanor."

I needed to feel my age. A 16 year old girl chasing a 20 year old guy was normal. My whole life I was forced to grow up so quickly and for the 7 months that John was in my life I got a break. At 5 years old I was exposed to my first "sexual experience." I wasn't raped but I was touched inappropriately by a teenage boy that was 14. I didn't tell my Mom until 6 months ago. I've been in therapy for over a year for my many problems and not too long ago I just got around to telling my therapist.

To put it all in a nutshell my life has been one disappointment after another. From my weight struggles, my inner demons and just 'problems' in general I only had one escape, my grandparents. They were there for me to fall back on when I needed to get away, when my brothers and parents became annoying at times. By the time I had gotten to 8th grade, they were gone. My grandmom died at the end of my 7th grade year from pancreatic cancer, and that December my grandfather died in a car accident. I have no place to get away now, no escape, no outlet.

The things that I choose to do usually get me in trouble. My sexuality is out of control. I'm a nympho probably because my whole life has revolved around sex. When I was 5 I was sexually abused. Throughout my life I was always throwing myself at some guy. I didn't care about them, but I had hormones that were out of control. John was the only one that I ever cared about.

I've gone through periods where I am so out of control that I do things that later make me feel dirty and unhappy. At parties I will strip off some of my clothes and make myself look like a complete tramp just to get a rise out of guys, just so I get some attention, so even if it's for only 5 minutes I know that someone finds me attractive. It's the wrong way to get attention and I
know that but sometimes I feel that I'm not in control of what I do. This force over comes me and there is no stopping it. That same force has cause me on several different occasions to cut myself to release the inner pain I feel inside. It's caused me to burn myself with cigarettes, lighters, irons. Some days I actually fear that I'll end up strapped to my bed in the psych ward of a hospital screaming at the top of my lungs.

I would give up what people seem to think is "the perfect physical image" and trade it in for inner happiness, because that is what counts and the only time I ever experienced that was with John and that was not true happiness because he was feeding me lies and I was living in a fantasy world when I was with him.

I pray every day that I will be okay and that I will posses both physical and inner beauty but the chances of that happening seem slim to me. I can only hope to overcome my obstacles.

I was diagnosed with BPD in 1994. At the time I thought it was because the psychiatrist couldn't figure out what was *really* wrong with me. Apparently, I'm bipolar too.

And an alcoholic, although my last therapist and I agreed that I self-medicated with alcohol and drugs.   I haven't used drugs since 1993 and I only drink maybe once a month, if that, and certainly not until I'm puking into the toilet. Besides, I'm on meds, and alcohol certainly doesn't agree with that.

I was married when I was diagnosed. It was a terrible relationship. I punched him, kicked him, slapped him, pulled his hair, threw things at him, yelled at him, and accused him. He took it all. Once in a while he'd leave the apartment to go for a walk, but he always forgave me. It makes me wonder if he was sick too or if he was really that devoted to me. He put up with all of my rages, pulling all of the books off the shelves, tearing pages out. Was this love?

I couldn't understand why I behaved the way I did. I wanted to stop. I was convinced that I was such a horrible person, to be treating my husband the way I did, to fly off the handle like that. I was in so much pain that I wanted it to stop. So I cut myself.   I reasoned that physical pain goes away eventually, so if I could only transfer my emotional pain to my physical body, maybe the emotional pain would go away too. Wrong.

Hospital stay. Hospital stay. Hospital stay. To this day I dread thinking about having to go to the hospital, even though I know that's where people go when they are sick, and I am, indeed, sick.

I was the one who felt that we should get a divorce.   My husband thought that was the sanest, most rational decision I'd made in a long time. We parted amicably.   It wasn't like we had any joint assets or anything to divide. Just four cats. He has two; I have two.

At that point I returned to school full time. I was very broke and seldom ate. My parents wouldn't help me because they said I had my chance but blew it. In spite of it all, I graduated with honors.

By the time I graduated, I had been off meds for over a year. I was still in therapy, which seemed to be working. I'd had two relationships, both of which didn't work out, but I didn't regret them and learned a few things: I need someone stable, intelligent, someone willing to discuss the future, who will love me for me. I didn't abuse them the way I did my ex-husband. I felt good, confident, I liked myself. I felt that I was growing as a person.

The summer after I graduated (1999), I was off to grad school. That's when things started falling apart again. I grew incredibly depressed and had to go back on meds. I doubted whether I could handle graduate studies. I got a new boyfriend, but I treat him the same way I treated my ex-husband. Fortunately, he doesn't simply put up with it and is willing to work with me on this illness. I'm lucky to have a person as committed to me as he is, but won't stand for all the bullshit BPD's can dish out.

But I still feel like shit. I've put on 20 lbs. since I've been here. I don't exercise. Or I do, but then I stop. I don't like myself anymore. In fact, I can't stand myself.

I've started cutting myself again, even worse than I had previously. My arm's all fucked up from where I've cut it with my disposable razors. How am I going to conceal that when I try to get a job? Wear long-sleeved shirts all the time? Ridiculous. But I can't seem to stop.

I just want my old life back. The one in which I liked myself, believed in myself.

Thanks for reading this far. I just want other BPD's to know that it *is* possible to have a good life.   You *can* feel good about yourself and have a life that isn't filled with turmoil, crisis, and drama.   That's the life I want again.

My life with bpd as they call it has been unbearable I kept getting wrong diagnosis all the time people said “oh she is hopeless they gave up on me” I was in numerous hospitals since 14 yrs old all the time at least over 100x and I tried suicide by od'ing tried hanging but mainly cutting to release the pain I felt inside I felt all alone in the world with no hope I sabotage any good I did and my relationships as well I was beaten and fondled. I couldn’t take this so each cut had to be deeper till I felt the euphoria or till someone listened but they never did I never had a real childhood I was institutionalized from 14 till 18. then repeated hosp.

Now I have a precious daughter and a fiancé who doesn't totally understand this and I keep pushing him away to but I still wonder why me....... Here’s a poem I wrote its my only release is writing I haven’t cut in over a year......... why me.... why me as I sit here wondering how this could be cant you see the pain in my eyes as I try so hard to please you do u even care my heart so bare why me....... why me as lay here and shed silent tears that flow like a river so deep they seep my sheets ....... why me whatever did I do to deserve this torture I live in please tell me cant you see ......why me I hurt inside as I try to hide.......why me....... well don’t ever give up hope I didn’t I may have this the rest of my life but I prove them all wrong and won I still push people away so I wont get hurt I’m not saying its easy but never give up or they will win there’s hope which is still hard 4 me to see.

Dec. 31, 2000

I thought that I'd write my thoughts on the last day of the year. Well, last night I cut him off and told him not to call because I was in a mood. Really, he doesn't need me to go off on him because of feelings that he nor I can ever change. Those feelings are all in there for good, permanently. I really wanted to cry in out but that stop working a long time ago for me.

I'm pretty sure that right now my family must be really pissed at me for not going out to help them clear the snow. He thinks that I ran away instead of telling him what was really up. Well, at least I wrote him an email trying to explain to the best of my ability. Damn, I am so sick of feeling and I wish that I could learn how to squash all these feelings like some people can.

We got into a argument (I guess you could call it that) because I simply asked him where he was going and he was about to bust out another one of those horribly insensitive "jokes" by saying to find chicks. So I mentioned that it upset me and he counter-attacked me by saying that that was only because I was having a side conversation with my sister. But I doubt he thought of it this way: does it make him happy inside to joke about stuff like that to me even when he is well aware of the fact that it hurts me especially with my low self-esteem. Because it actually does make me happy to talk to my sister and he knows this too.

Oh well, so I tried to drop it but he was still upset that "that had to happen". I tried to explain to him that I'll always love him regardless but that doesn't mean he can step all over me like that. I asked him a simple question which if the sides were reversed and I didn't tell him he would go nuts. He admitted to being wrong this time but that's not good enough. I'm willing to change and he's not? He told me last night that my past is very hard for him to accept and I told him that I've come to terms with what's gone on in my past and that he could discuss it with me whenever he wants. I told him that he is such a dear because I just realized how sensitive he really is. The thing that really gets to me is that I am happy with him in general but that other aspects that I solely part of my being have come to the surface to interfere with us getting along like we should. How could it come to this? Why do both of us have to hide from our own feelings and pretend to keep each other happy? Well, I've been doing this my whole life and he has too so we should also accept that, right?

I mean my parents who are supposed to be the closest people to me don't have a clue who the hell I am and I know that it's already too late to repair the damage that's gone on in that department and it really depresses me. They want to be proud of me but only if I do what they have planned for me and this has been my biggest inner conflict especially now that I am almost done with college. I don't even feel ready to go on to the real world yet. I wonder if they know how scared I really am and that it is completely their fault?

Who the would want to live as me, all I am I just a shell of a whole person with a huge emptiness inside that will never be filled? The past couple years to my parents I'm sure it seems like I am happy and that things are going well on the path to medical school but I wish that they would know all the times that I've cried and tried to end it all. But I stayed strong and resisted to do this. But for who's sake though? What do I really have to look forward to? Is it just more hurt and pain and disappointment?

I just realized something that I've been doing for a long time. I’ve been shutting out the people who really do need to know how I feel and now I'm scared that I might be shutting him out too. God, how sad it will be when I have no one left who gives a damn about me? I'm already closer and closer to giving up on myself and on my useless life. Why start a whole new year when I already know that the world has nothing to offer me and I can never go back to being happy because I've never been happy. I don't know what the fuck happy is anymore and I don't know that I have enough emotional energy to stick around to see if I deserve it or not. I wish I were like everyone else who can be happy and do what they want to in life. My high school career was partially about me doing well for my parents and partially about me trying to find true happiness.

Then college comes along and I try my best to do well but the sadness and pain inside takes over and the search begins. I feel like my whole live has been a lie and I am the only one fighting a losing battle. I'm so tired. I don't know if I can live another day like this. When I'm not hurting it's only temporary and then it comes back a million times worse because I try to keep it in and put on a "happy" face for the world to see. Nothing feels real anymore. I feel like things in my life are just moving forward at an incredible pace and me, I'm here stuck in my inner world where everything is stagnant and so dark and sad.

I am 18, and I have always known I was different, but I use to think it was it was because I was unique, as my teachers use to say. When puberty hit was when I started noticing that something wasn't right. I don't know exactly when I discovered my mom was bipolar, but it was never something we talked about. I know mental health issues run deep in one side of my family, but, also, that side of the family was never talked about. When I did try asking my mom for help, she would always tell me I was fine, and that I could get past the problem. And since the only side of my bpd that I could visible see for a long time was the depression, I never suspected the truth. I tried talking to my friends a couple of times, but they never understood and would look at me strangely. So I put on a mask, and hid what I could of my out of control emotions. But almost every night I went to bed crying, thankful that I hadn't broken down in front of anyone.

At the beginning of last year, the mask that I always wore cracked and broke. I couldn't handle keeping it inside anymore. So, I ran...ran from everything, and went through my most life changing manic phase thus far. It wasn't until a little while ago, when I sat down with my boyfriends sister and actually discussed bipolar (what it is and all of it's symptoms), that I started to see the pattern of its effect on my life. Now, along with fixing the many messes I have made, I'm struggling to understand my self and my problem better.

I'm afraid to go on meds; I'm afraid to lose the uniqueness that is me. But I can't keep hurting myself or my family and those that care about me. Reading your stories give me strength. To know that I'm not alone; that all of the crazy thoughts, impulses and reactions that I know have no logic to them are felt by others has given me courage to ask others for help again. Now that I know what's wrong, I can learn how to make it something I can live with, and function with in my life.

I haven't been labeled as having bpd. In fact, I've never been to a psychiatrist or a therapist ... no mind examining for me (as of yet). I have been "forced" to talk to councilors since around the first grade. I think it started way before that.

As a toddler I was physically abusive of my older sister. I would hit her with toys, swinging like a pro-leaguer trying for a home run. A little later I started having dreams where my parents left me or I was being hunted by clowns or some monstrous silhouette. I started walking in my sleep to check on the people in my family.. At first only my mom and dad and pets.. Then my sister when she was moved in. I only have a vague remembrance of one of those times, but I've been told I did it many, many times and I remember waking up in one of their rooms at the foot of their beds, like some sort of puppy, sometimes. I remember being really vicious toward people when I was angered, I would scream or kick them, hit them. I was, and sometimes still am, physically or verbally abusive when I feel cornered or injured. I was told all the time that I was fat, I was stupid, a dumb blonde > my hair was brown with strawberry-blonde sun streaks < and I would scream and run off to be alone and cry.

My mom was a severely depressed alcoholic. She was in and out of in-house treatment and AA and taking Prozac for as long as I can remember. I feared her more than I feared anything. I remember being screamed at and having things thrown at my sister and me, sometimes hit. Once my mom slammed my head against the side of the tub. Another time she slammed my face against a door. My dad and her fought a lot at night. Mostly when she came home drunk and wanted to take her anger out on her helpless children. I somehow don't think they knew I was awake. They would throw things at each other, screaming and hitting. The sounds simply echoed hollowly in my mind and I cowered in my bed with eyes squeezed shut, begging for her to not come in. For her to, please, not make it in. I can't remember her making it in. But any of us know that doesn't mean she didn't.

My mom lied. A lot. The in-house specialists said it was because of the alcohol abuse. I don't believe them. She still lies. She's been "sober" since October. She's mean when she drinks. She beat my sister and me one night. It was December 8, 1995. We went to school the next morning.

She made us come in her room where she was laying with some stranger. A blonde headed man. They were both naked. I kissed her, felt repulsed, and then, washed my mouth out several times. I hated her. I wanted to just run away. It was raining that morning. A barely warm morning with icy rain and bitter winds. It was the perfect morning after. I walked, the left side of my face swollen and nearly black, with my face tilted up to the rain. It felt so good. It felt like it's connection with my face was simply it falling and then melting into me, becoming part of me. I felt no sadness, or anger, the hatred vanished as I let the rain melt into me. It was like nothing up to the point was real. All just some demented lie and the rain and the contrast of warmth and cold. I wish now that I had just kept walking and never gone into school that day. I would have been content to walk around in the icy rain, the vaguely warm air, the uncaring grayness of a rainy winter day. School was a blur. In fact, the rest of my sixth grade year is pretty much a blur.

I remember being called into the office right in the middle of lunch. A social worker was in the principal's office. They both looked at me with this mockery of concern. I wanted to get up and walk back out. I didn't. I sat there and looked at them through my right eye, slumping. They asked me how I was, I shrugged. They asked did I eat lunch, no I told them. I was asked why. I told them, " I didn't want her money." They looked at each other. They were very, very very, uncomfortable. They told me I wasn't going to live with my mom anymore. I got to go live with her mother. This depressed me farther

We had moved away from my dad's house that summer. My mom informed me that her and my dad were getting "separated" and it would be "just us girls" and what "fun" we'd have. I begged to, please, stay with my daddy. No. I had to go. I knew then it would be hell. I was washing our dishes and cleaning the kitchen and bathroom every day. The dishes were done 3 or more times a day, every day. My sister was in charge of the living room and basement and laundry of our duplex. I was told to feed and water our cocker spaniel and guinea pig. Supper was on us usually. I only got to see my dad for a few hours on Sunday afternoons. I was in hell. My school worked was lower than even before, I was quiet. In a school where I was the minority. Where I was hated. Where I was mocked. I became Incredibly meek. I avoided social interaction whenever possible. I worked alone on huge projects. Looked down, rarely talked to anyone. I lied a lot. Often without reason. I stayed lost in my fantasies of being loved and taking control. I made myself sick. I didn't care. My only concern was for my dog and dad. Nothing else mattered at the time.

I never made a serious enough attempt at suicide to call me suicidal. I scratched myself with the posts of earrings, broken rings, my nails. I bit myself until I bled. I picked at my acne until I left hideous scars. I hate myself for it. I had, and still have, a fetish for seeing my own blood well up in a perfect bead. A succulent deep red orb, drifting up from my life and into my mouth. I never really tried to hurt anyone else after I was beaten. Until late in the seventh grade year. Then it happened all to often. I nearly pushed a girl, who was a "good friend" at the time, off of the top row of the bleachers in the gymnasium I threw a chair at a boy's head. A boy who tormented me and harassed me every day he saw me. He mocked me and laughed and infuriated me to the point where I didn't think. Couldn't think. I simply let a little demon take over. I grabbed the chair I was standing by and launched it at his head. A friend of his pushed him out of the way.. The chair would have hit him full in the face. That year was full of self- abuse. I hit lockers, rammed my head against concrete block walls, kicked lockers, OD'd on pain relievers, barely ate. Looking back on those few years between fourth and eleventh grades, I don't understand what didn't kill me.

I went to see a counselor...everyday for the longest time. I went in once a week for the rest of my sixth grade year, everyday for a total of 2 maybe 3 months my seventh grade year, and about a week's worth of days my eighth grade year. I confessed so much hatred and emotion to her. I wondered for a long time if I had ever made her cry. I hated myself more. I hated god, my mom, and myself. I was angry and depressed all the time. I cried a lot. I was clingy and needy. I wanted attention, affection. I acted like a slut for males to keep their attention. I felt stupid and did it more.

I never confessed anything to my dad. He never asked questions. But he knew. I know this because there were days when we'd be sitting in the kitchen, me coloring in coloring books like a much smaller child, him looking at car parts books or magazines, or coloring with me, and he'd suddenly say in a nonchalant manner, "You know I'm here for you, right?" Right, I knew he was. Always here for me. Forever. That's what he said. I believed it with all of my whole, but warring self. It was a belief I held onto until his death. Then I really had a hard time with abandonment issues.

After I moved in with my mom's mother, I was able to spend whole weekends with my dad, and when we had the same days off during the week I spent them with him too.

I told people I hated my mom. That I wished she had gone to prison. That I wished I never knew her. They told me I was bad. That it was and is wrong to say that. Mom's mom said I was going to hell for it.

So many times, people have talked to me about self-esteem. About love. About abuse. So many people who don't know how it feels to wonder if their mother is going to hurt them today when she comes home. So many people who were never told their mother was a bad person and needed help. So many people who aren't abused. When I was small, I never really thought about my mom hitting me. I thought everyone's parents were like mine. I was sent to the counselor in first grade and she handed me a little box. Told me to open it, that when I opened it and looked in, I would see the most wonderful person on the world. I opened it. I looked at my distorted reflection in the tiny dented, bent, and peeling mirror. I had no reaction except to think that she didn't take very good care of her mirror box. I handed it back silently. She gave me the lecture on sexual abuse. All her words rebounded and ricocheted in my head with tinny echoing sounds. I lied to me, said she knew nothing. Sometimes, I wonder if I would somehow be different if I had told her. If I had run away. If I had not been born to my mother.

After reading some of the stories here, I felt like I found people with whom I had common ground. Each story is different. But I somehow feel connected. Like I belong. I feel teary because all these relationships are strained, uncomfortable. Awkward. I can't seem to get enough affection from my relationships. There is always something missing. I always find a reason to end them if the other person doesn't. I never feel like I belong anymore. I feel stupid when I say this, even among my friends, I am a loner. Alone. Everyone has someone except me. I can't have anyone. They get uncomfortable or I get.. Anxious? Nervous? Afraid? Yes. I feel like everyone is laughing behind my back.

I'm afraid of big crowds. I'm scared someone is going to sneak me away and rape me. Hurt me. Abuse me. I've been raped. I was drunk nearly to the point of alcohol poisoning. I had a moment of conscious and coherent thought, not sober, but at least aware. He was 20, I was 16. I pushed against his chest, mumbled no. Tried to roll away, or at least turn on my side for more comfort. There was a towel soiled with my bloody vomit under my head, in case I threw up more. The smell made me want to throw it. It felt repulsive under my hair and head. He slipped his disgusting dick inside of me and I gave in a little. Condom, I murmured as I started to sink back into oblivion. He laughed, said it was already too late for that. He started to move in and out and I fell into a blissful unconsciousness. I felt disgusting the next day. I went to a friend's house and showered, got a ride to my mom's from my friend's dad. > This happened a little over a year after my dad died. After which, I started spending weekends at my mom's. <

I got to her house and went back to bed. It was around 1 in the afternoon. My mom woke me up at 5 that night for supper, and to make sure I was ok. She asked if we had stayed up all night. I told her we were still up at 6 am. She nodded and the whole thing was dropped. The guy got my number and called me. Said I was a nice piece. Said he wanted another round, but with me sober. Begged me to sneak out and meet him. I made excuses and never did. I started to refused his calls. After a while he stopped trying.

Every time I think about that night, I feel stupid used, and guilty. I should have known better than to buy alcohol and drink it with a dick like him around. Especially since it was alcohol stronger than what I was used to. A kind I had never had. People insist that he was old enough and sober > he had taken on drink from the bottle < enough to have known better. I still thought it was my fault. I thought my parent's divorce was my fault. I thought the abuse my family rained on me was my fault. Everything somehow was my fault. All my fault. I didn't know about it? I was lying. I didn't do it? I was lying. Something came up missing.. I stole it. I was the scapegoat. Everyone's finger pointed at me for something.

I don't like sex. Before I tried it, I loved it. After trying it, I discovered it was nothing great or cool or even fascinating. No awesome climax to bind my soul and sate my starved body. No overwhelming warmth and love. Nothing. A guy under me, with his little hard on stuck in me. I didn't even feel the skin of my innocence break. I laughed. So many one nighters. Guys I didn't care for, who I knew and know never had or will care for me. So many times to regret. I was never spent time with. It was all about them and getting them off. I laid or sat there, wondering how much longer. Was he liking it? Really? I let my mind drift. Once I was told to pretend he was any man I wanted, told to scream whose ever's name I was pretending he was. I did nothing. I made a few little half hearted moans. I drank a 20 oz bottle of Jim Beam and Pepsi cola afterwards. He stole from my dad. Stupid b-----. He asked me if my self mutilation marks were contagious. I said no, then wished I had said yes. Three others besides him and the innocence taker. Five guys. A raper, a jailbird, and a thief. The other two total up to a boy from a broken home and a male prostitute. I regret everyone of them. The prostitute was an actual boyfriend. A total of 2 months. I spent the last month and three weeks looking for a way out. He had sex with me a lot. I scratched his back to bloody ribbons out of boredom and with no other reason. He made me sore and didn't listen when I told him no. I accused him of cheating and then attacked him viciously with mean words. I didn't care. I felt nothing. My last relationship ended in a horrid mess. A guy I had a.. Well, I don't know how to describe it. It was sort of like and obsession with small breaks every so often. He was in my thoughts a lot. I knew his name. I had a common friend with him. That was all there was. He dominated my fantasies for a while. Then even that disintegrated. Then he appeared again suddenly in real life. I was elated. He dated a friend of mine. A very cruel and manipulative friend, a vindictive and malicious friend. She really messed with his head. He asked me out. We went out for about 3 or 4 weeks. He wrote me a note. He was uncomfortable. I was in a delusional state of bliss. I blinded myself to my own problems and to his, as well. He told me very little about himself. I learned mostly from his mom, sister, and best bud. I felt stupid and child-like around him. I cried for two days. Everyone was mad at him. He apologized. Said he didn't know what he was thinking, that he wasn't thinking. Told me contradicting lies. Asked me out again. This time it went for two weeks. He broke up with me the day before it would have been exactly 3 weeks since we had originally broken up. He did it in person. Asked me what do we do now? after breaking up with me. I shrugged, barely kept from hitting him, from jumping on him and kissing him. I turned away and walked off. I cried. He gave me confusing signs for a while. Hug me, touch me. I still love you even though we aren't going out any more. Then over spring break.. he falls magically in love with a friend of mine. A friend whom another ex of mine cheated on me with. He called me that Friday and said that she had spent one night with him and his best bud. Then he tells me the Monday a week later that they were together the whole week and that he loved her. I said, like you loved me? He said, no, I really love her, like nobody else. I nearly cried. He don't talk to me and I don't talk to him. I didn't talk to her for the longest time. I was really hurt. They both knew I still liked him. I still do now. Even after he's been a complete jerk off to me. I can say I've set myself into knowing I wouldn't and couldn't see him again. I just wish I didn't have to see him around any more.

I can't shake this unease lately. I feel scared. Like I'm being followed. I feel so uncomfortable. Always seeking short term but intense relationships online. Wanting so badly to be the center of someone's world. I'm afraid my oldest dog is going to die one day and I'm going to find her. Her and my dad were my two main reasons for living and not running away all those years. I am dazed here lately. And I can't concentrate. I can only think of a guy on here I like. He was abused by his dad as a small child, had a lot of things to do to help his mom care for his sisters. He's dabbled in drugs, speed and

I wonder why it was us. Why are we so easy to mistreat and be left unloved. So many bad people in the world are loved. And we are left battered and almost broken. People think we are diseased and act like it's contagious. Run from us, hurt us. I feel so selfish. I just want love. I just want understanding. Maybe there is no explanation. Maybe there is no reason. Maybe. It can't be helped. None of us chose these lives. Didn't ask to be beaten, didn't ask to want to hurt ourselves. Never asked to need affection and love so badly we run from it when we get it. Some can't handle the pressure of unconditional love for another. The anger, the depression, the highs, they make so many anxious and nervous, slightly paranoid.

All I want is care. Someone there to love me and listen. Understand or at least try to. It's importance is as ineffable as the smell of green. It's not something made for words. It's a thing made for the senses. Something felt, seen, tasted. I wish I was telepathic sometimes. So then I could just give my thoughts, feelings, emotions to someone else so they would know. So they could help. So they could understand.

All I need is some love. I can give some back. It will be as imperfect as all the rest of me, but it will be perfect in it's trueness. Maybe I won't get the love I need. Maybe I will just surround myself with tons of pets who will always be happy to see me, whose eyes will light up when I walk in, whose tails will wag excitedly and whose warm tongue will ease my pain. But it's not the same. Somehow, I hope I do make it through this.

Hi I'm a 23 year old female with BPD that was diagnosed 8 years ago. I've decided that sharing my whole life story really isn't important at this point because I truly feel like once you've read one of our stories you've read them all! I started out wanting to make this inspirational because let's face it having BPD is pretty damn depressing! Unfortunately I don't think that’s possible.

There are not a lot of high happy moments with this disorder, and unless you've lived with BPD you can never possibly understand the complexity of the it. In my opinion (which granted is just a little one) it is the fiercest of all mental health disorders. I think the key to understanding this honestly is to read stories of other people with the same issues so you know that you really aren't the only one out there feeling like this because as far as everybody else is concerned Dr's included (sometimes) is that we should just be able to snap out of this and that it really can't be that bad. That you just have to want it bad enough. Well let me tell you, I've wanted it bad enough for a long time.

I've looked at all my friends grow up and go to college and become respectable adults that can pay their bills and maintain a relationship. Which seems impossible for me. I literally get tired just thinking about it. I guess I just want to let all my friends out there with BPD know that you are not alone. God did not pick you out single-handedly to be the poster-child for BPD (although you might think so sometimes ) and I truly believe that things will get better someday but until that day comes just take one day at a time, and I 'm sure that there is a ray of sunshine at the end of the road which is that I think god has a special place for us BPD survivors in heaven doing something really important and being really successful at it.

I was raised in what I always considered a "normal" environment--two healthy, middle-class parents who didn't physically beat me. They always said I was smart, and encouraged me in my studies. But my dad was always away during the week for work, only home on the weekends, and when he was home, he was highly critical. Never raised his voice, but emotionally he wasn't there for me. My mom had trouble raising 2 kids on her own, so she would lose it and go into fits of rage, screaming at us, banging things around and then yelling at us not to cry. My opinion didn't matter in my house. My sister spoke for me.

I always felt I was "different" growing up, but I couldn't understand why. I had trouble making friends, yet I wanted to fit in. I couldn't seem to express myself to other people, instead I just went along with whatever they said or did. I met my husband just out of high school, and he was extremely emotionally and verbally controlling and abusive. I think I never did anything impulsive during all the years I was with him because I was afraid of his reaction. He never once hit me though, so I thought I owed it to him to stay. But the hurtful things he said to me hurt so bad that I felt like killing myself at times.

When I left him after 10 years (no kids, luckily), I thought all I had to do was get over the initial depression and I'd be okay, because the abuse was gone from my life. But then I felt so lonely, and I became suicidal. It happened twice in one month, and the only reason I didn't attempt it was because I knew that I was such a perfectionist that there wouldn't be an attempt--I would make sure I was successful the first time. But once I got on anti-depressants, I felt better and I thought things were okay again. I was smoking pot daily, as I had done for the past decade, but I was ready to give it up. When I did, the emotions hit full force again. I quit my anti-depressants cold-turkey. I burned myself with cigarettes. I took overdoses of over-the-counter medication (not in an attempt to kill myself but just to numb the pain). I cut myself. I thought of suicide again. I tried to break my toes by kicking the wall with my bare foot. And this most recent bout--I had sex with a different stranger every night hoping one of them would beat me and kill me. And each time I did one of those crazy things, I would come out of my dissociated way of thinking and think, "Why? Why did I do that?"

The pain of loneliness is just so intense for me. I try to make friends, but I just can't connect. And I don't feel like I can be myself. At work, I function well, and am able to focus when I get going to get projects done, but I have trouble getting started on projects and even more trouble relating to other people at work. I try to stay in my corner and stay quiet, separating myself from everyone else. I don't ask questions, don't talk to other people. And I got attached to my therapist and almost died when she said she wouldn't be my friend after therapy was over. My life is hell sometimes, I feel like I'm crazy, yet I've never been committed for any reason.

I'm actually glad I discovered I have BPD. At least I have a label for this madness, and I can do something to treat it. I'm starting DBT sometime in the next few months, whenever they can get me in. In the meantime, I'm seeing my therapist twice a week just so I have some stable connection to the world. Because I have no close friends, at least not where I live now. The friends I do have I can't talk to about this. And my family, well, they already think I'm the oddball of the family, so I'm sure they won't be surprised by the news.

It's hard for me to write about this, knowing other people will actually read it, opposed to when I write for myself. :) But... here I go.

From the moment I was born, I was doomed to be dysfunctional. My father was an alcoholic, and my mother was, and still is, a very immature, irresponsible, outward appearance oriented person. She's basically still a teenager at the age of 48. For the first 4 years of my life, I naturally don't remember much. I do remember however, feeling like the only person who loved me was my Great-Grandmother. I was devastated when she died when I was only 3.

We moved, with my mother's inheritance money into an old house in the country. Here, my father's alcoholism reached its peak. I remember waking up in the middle of the night, creeping downstairs and watching them scream and yell. I believed it was all my fault.

My father was very verbally abusive when he was drunk. He would joke about me, and tell me disgusting things that I shouldn't have been hearing...such as one night, I was sick, and I woke very late. My father asked me if I was wearing underwear under my nightgown. I remember sheepishly replying that no, I wasn't. He then told me I had better watch out, because his friend would really like that. And then they all laughed. I was probably 6 at the time. I was always a very intelligent child, reading at a very young age, speaking at a very young age and so on. I understood exactly what he meant.

My mother and father got divorced, and I was relieved. My mother and I lived in the house for awhile, and then began a journey that didn't end until years later. We moved and moved, I think she was just trying to find happiness somewhere. Never found it though. So we moved.

I became very manipulative for a little girl. I convinced her to let me not go to school. One year I missed over 85 days. Yet still, I passed every year. My mother's weight went up and then down, and then up again. I myself, gained weight. I was just chubby, but little children are cruel, and I was made fun of a lot.

My mother went from boyfriend to boyfriend, because I think she herself has a little bit of BPD, and she desperately needs men in her life so she feels better. When I was 8 years old, very alone, very lost... my mother met one man that would end up changing my life. We moved from our little apartment to his mansion, and everything was great at first. The roof on this house was connected all the way around, and led to various windows and rooms. One of those was mine. Not long after we moved in, this 6'7" man, started climbing in my window at night, and molesting me. This went on every night for 4 months or so. The abuse was very severe. Not only the sexual, but he was also very verbally and emotionally abusive. I remember him telling me that no one wanted me. "No one will ever want you, because you're just a stupid little pig. You're ugly and worthless, and everything's your fault. You're nothing to everyone, they all wish you would die. Everyone hates you Sarah, everyone. You're nothing. You never will be anything." It goes on.

I became very withdrawn. I showed all the signs of abuse, yet no one ever picked up on them. Of course not, because they didn't care. I remember threatening my mom, telling her I was going to kill myself. Run out into traffic, find a gun and shoot myself. Very childish threats. She laughed at me. Then she cried. Then she laughed. And she tried to stop me. I was very confused because she was very confused. And no one wanted me anyway. The only reason my mother left that relationship is because somehow, the school became involved. What I told them, I don't remember. That whole period in my life is a dark mass. I do remember my 9th birthday though. I accidentally left the wheel of my bike touching the driveway, when I was called inside. The man screamed and yelled at me, and locked me in my room. I remember just sitting on the edge of my bed, staring blankly at the wall, praying to God to take me away from this place, for the entire day. I was in there for hours and hours, and then my mom came up, and gave me a small box with some stickers inside. Happy Birthday. But then she left, and I was still there. She said she couldn't get him to let me out.

When we finally left, we moved from shelter to shelter, hiding from him. But my mom still didn't know what caused it. She's very easily led, and when the school told her that if we didn't hide, I'd be taken away, she did what they said. We finally pretty much got away.

I went from school to school, never opening my mouth to talk to anyone. Some called it shyness, I thought of it as pain.

I had what's technically called something I can't remember, but is basically a huge blackout about that time during my life. I didn't remember anything that happened to me. And then, the dreams came.

Soon, I knew. I was 12 then, and very overweight for a child that age. I told my mother. But she didn't know what to do. She cried and hugged me, but then told me that somehow it was my fault. I agreed. It must be. Things like that don't happen to good little girls. Only the bad ones.

We moved on. I remember waking up every morning to see my mother, with her face centimeters from the bathroom mirror, crying about how ugly she was. My mother is an incredibly beautiful woman. She modeled and all that nonsense earlier in her life. I started to think I was ugly. I already knew I wasn't worth anything, of course! I must be ugly as well.

When I was 13, and had moved 16 times in my life, my mother decided I was too much for her. I was a very confused, angry, hurting person then, and I took a lot of it out on her. I moved in with my dad, who had stopped his alcoholism and whatnot.

Things aren't that much better here. I'm 16 now, and every day's a struggle. I started cutting when I was 14. People say it doesn't help. But God, it does. It takes so much away from what's inside. It helps to see that you're alive. So kill the beast, mar the beast, scar that inner demon that never sleeps.

I was diagnosed with BPD around 15, and I have a wonderful therapist who understands me as well as she can. I surround myself with friends who don't truly care for me, or understand me, and I always get hurt.

My first true love happened around when I was 15/16. He was my first. I told him about my past. Told him how much I needed love and trust and..him. He cheated on me. I can't blame him now, he was scared. I would have been scared too. I am scared.

Life is like a constant war with myself. Everything's always so dark, and I wear this mask that hides me from everyone. I just want so much to be loved, to be needed, to be wanted. Everything's my fault. I try again and again, to find someone who loves me, and I get hurt. I always get hurt. So many people have hurt me, but it must be my fault, right? The bad girl gets her punishment. Inside my head, my thoughts run around, bashing against each other, and into the walls of my brain. I cry, I laugh, I smile, I yell. I never know how I feel. I'm so scared of abandonment.

My mother left me, by the way. Of course. She moved away with a man, who abuses her. But she won't listen to me. I hurt inside. I can't explain the hurt to anyone who hasn't felt it. It's the most intense pain I've felt in my life. Sometimes I just float right out of my body, and watch the fake me function. I can't stop it.

I'm on my meds, I've just started a DBT group. Everyone thinks I'm so much better. I have this one friend, and she's the most beautiful person I've ever known. She understands me and I her. She's in a mental hospital right now. But, you know...that makes sense. People are constantly remarking on how "beautiful" I am. Yet, I find myself hideous. I hate everything about me, and can't find anything to love, even when I look. Why would anyone love me? I can't find a reason. But, I just want someone to, so much. I'm so very alone. And terrified of my life. I don't remember yesterday, I can't see tomorrow, and I've spent most of today daydreaming. I want so much to become something meaningful. I can't fly. My wings drag along the ground, and I just want something to repair their rips and tears and let me fly. It's a fight with my eyes to open every morning. Sometimes, I don't. I wish I didn't have to live, I wish I didn't have to be one of those "survivors" everyone praises. They say I'm so strong. Yet, they can't see the weak little girl inside, ruined and soiled, and crying out for someone to love her. I'm still invalidated every day. I'm still told I'm going to gain the weight back, I'm still told that I'm lazy and worthless.

My step mother once put a razor blade on my stomach and told me to use that because "that would finish the job". Ah well. Yes, I told my father. He took the razor blade and never said anything about it again. Besides the fact that she must have been "pissed". Ah yes. So damage me some more, why don't you. People think I do things for attention. I admit, that craving love and affection and a desperate need to be needed may come off as attention seeking. No one trusts me, they say I lie, twist the truth around. But everything I see, is different from what they see, I guess. Because I don't think I lie. Sometimes, I even wonder if anything ever really happened to me. I don't know what to do, and I don't think I ever will. But to them, I'm better. So, sure, I'm better. Just don't look inside. It's a sick place.